Rants from the Crib

An Ob/Gyn gone mad

Archive for the category “Daily Life”

My Husband, The Food Terrorist

My husband has, er, a strong opinion about the correct consumption of food.  It overwhelms any sense of shame he might have (he hasn’t).  He has embarrassed me so many times in so many food venues.  And his food rules are many and complex.

He once demanded to see a manager in a McDonald’s.

On a date, in a 5 star restaurant in Atlanta, he waved over the maître d’ to inform him that the baked potatoes had been sitting under the warmer for far too long and they were unacceptably dry.  I wanted to crawl under the table and yet… I married him.

Every time we go to Ruth’s Chris, he sends his steak back to be put back on the grill and done right, and he lectures the wait staff on the nuances of steak preparation.  He informs them that he wants no pepper on the steak rub, and he doesn’t want it to come with sizzling butter on the plate.  What possible food  would NOT be improved by the presence of sizzling butter?

I am Harry. He is Sally.

He always demands his dressing on the side, because “they put too much on”.  He requests no croutons.  And when the croutons come anyway, he piles them reproachfully on the side of his plate.

We were out to eat with my parents, and my mom leaned over and whispered, “Why does he DO that?”  She was referring to his highly odd practice of ordering a salad with chicken, and carefully removing the chicken and placing it on a separate plate.  I had already asked him. “Why in the hell would you order a salad with chicken, and then take it off?”  He looked at me as if I were dimwitted.  “The hot chicken wilts the lettuce.”  Seriously?

We have yet to buy food through a drive-through.  He refuses to drive his food home, because it will be “too cold to eat”. Alternately, he also refuses to get Blizzards in the drive-through, because they will be too MELTED when we get home.  He can’t eat melted ice cream.  I’m not sure what he think happens when it gets into his stomach.

When we were first married, he was obsessed with expiration dates on food.  He read everything in the pantry, and no matter what it was, he refused to eat it if it was one day past the expiration date.  The first time I brought him home to meet my parents, he informed my mom that the can she had just opened was past its due date.  My mother, who buys food and stocks her fridge and pantry as if she were preparing for Armageddon, clipping coupons and buying in massive bulk, looked at him like he had cabbages growing out of his ears.  Actually, she looked at him like she wanted to whack him with a spatula.  I know that look.

He has always been obsessed with sodium.  His dad was probably the last human being who was ever placed on a low sodium diet.  He scrutinizes everything he picks up in the supermarket and scowls.  “I can’t believe how much SODIUM they put in this!  It’s like the silent epidemic!”  I have told him innumerable times that no one really worries about sodium any more.  But I’m only a doctor, so what do I know?

Then there’s the fat thing.  To say that he eschews fat would indeed be putting it mildly.  He peels and scrapes and carves every bit of his meat which seems to be remotely white in color.  Even a very lean pork chop – he carefully minces off scarcely visible edges of fat and piles them on his plate, testament to his lack of confidence in the buyer’s ability to purchase a decent piece of meat.  He won’t eat a bite until the surgery is adequately performed.  I’m not sure what he would do if he ever accidentally put a morsel of fat into his mouth.  It would probably immediately induce vomiting.

And, there are the popsicles.  He consumes sugar-free popsicles, packs at a time.  He likes to bring them to TV time, so that the dialogue sounds like CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH rip, shred, rip, shred (him opening more popsicles).  He used to do the crunching and the rip-shredding in bed too, until I made him stop.  He leaves the wrappers everywhere, despite having a garbage can within arm’s reach.

He’s convinced that he has mercury poisoning, so he now rejects the “sulfur-forming” foods:  cruciate vegetables, eggs, basically everything that is good for you.  And he has another Bee in His Bonnet – after consulting multiple forums on mercury toxicity (but not a doctor), he now takes a chelating regimen of literally dozens of vitamins a day, to exorcise the evil toxin from his body.  I don’t want to know how much they cost, but unfortunately I have a pretty good idea. We even have vitamin packages arriving from South Africa.  He looks like an HIV patient – he has timers set on his phone, for these miracle workers must be taken at precise times.  I don’t know what will happen if he messes up a dose, but I am sure it is dire.  We have timers going off every four hours throughout the night.

Also, he refuses anything he had to eat in childhood.  His family was fairly poor, and he had to live with his grandparents a while.  They did a lot of living off the land; they had a garden and fished and hunted.  So to this day, he will eat NOTHING that they had in abundance when he was a kid.  No okra.  No spinach.  Only iceberg lettuce.  And no freshwater fish, because they caught and ate them.  They taste “too fishy”.  I have no idea what the heck else a fish is supposed to taste like.  He only eats top-of the-food-chain ocean fish, although he now rejects them as well because they contain mercury.

He goes on Atkins a lot, mainly when his 32’s get too tight.  He refuses to buy up a size in the face of his increasing age.  You would think, given his food obsessions, that he would eat a healthy diet.  Oh, no.  I think he would eat Mexican food every day if he could.  He eats like a pig:  ice cream, Blizzards, tangy Sweet Tarts, popcorn, until the 32’s get tight, then he slams on the brakes and eats only lunch meat and cheese.  Cooking for my family is impossible.  If you combine the fat-eschewing with the loathing of most domestic vegetables and fish and the fear of sodium, mercury and sulfur, and the no-carbs rule – big fun at meals in OUR house!

Just a little food OCD.  I will not, however, mention the fact that I eat six cartons of yogurt a day.  There’s NOTHING weird about that!  Nope.  Good times.


Hah Bumbug!


The Beadstork family is a bit eccentric. I will seamlessly offer proof in the form of a list of our Christmas Day activities:

1. My husband did actual billable computer work. On Christmas. He works EVERY DAY. And he fixed my Mom’s computer.

2. My father consumed an entire pound of homemade fudge between the hours of 9 AM and 7 PM.

3. My daughter’s favorite gift was a bow and arrow – a toy, but much better made and high tech. She spent the entire day shooting the suction cup arrow down the hall into the front door. By bedtime she had a blister.

4. We ran the dishwasher 3 times.

5. I gave my husband a sterling silver chain maille choker that I made, worth hundreds of dollars. He gave me a library book that he made my daughter wrap.

6. We spent a good part of midday creating multicolored polymer high bounce balls with a chemical reaction that occurred in our kitchen.

7. My father read me poetry out of his poetry book that he published.

8. We had an exhaustive conversation about social status and personal responsibility. Somehow it turned into a discussion about how longbows and crossbows had rendered body armor obsolete.

9. My mom Facebook messaged me from her computer upstairs to my phone downstairs : “So where are you spending Christmas this year? Ohio? North Dakota?” From downstairs I messaged back: “Um… at your house?”

10. An enormous Wile E Coyote wearing a Santa hat sat in one of the living room chairs the whole weekend.

11. My mom gave me this AWESOME “Happy Light” designed to treat seasonal depression that I can also use to make my jewelry. Bonus: she says she got it free with the purchase of a lightbulb that cost a fraction of the free lamp!

12. We drank 3 pitchers of Crystal Light lemonade.

13. My father spent the day reading my “gift” book from the library. He’s a quarter of the way through already.

14. My seventy-something mom showed us videos on her smartphone.

15. My husband spent the evening reading a book on beginning meditation. New obsession!

16. Mom turned the sound off for every TV commercial during The Grinch.

17. My daughter and my mom made the annual “granddaughter-grandmother” cheese ball from scratch – a tradition now spanning 4 generations.

18. There were exotic chickens roaming through our yard. The peacocks were off duty today.

19. We temporarily lost the cat.

20. We found a picture of my friend’s dad on Facebook that had a mysterious glow between his legs, and three generations giggled about “Christmas balls”

21. I tantalized my daughter with tales of a tongue twister that results in horrible obscenities if said incorrectly.

22. We schemed to take up money to buy the neighbor a new muffler, since the poor man clearly can’t afford one.

23. My dad would have eaten all the mint brownies, so mom had to hide them.

24. We discussed the pros and cons of collecting copays up front in a doctor’s office.

25. I taught my daughter about super-nummerary nipples. She asked me if I have an extra boob, and when I said no, she said “Aww… I wanted a special mom!”. I told her that I am way too special already without one.

26. We discussed the importance of protecting book spines and dust covers.

27. I ranted about super-conservatives who equate using the word X-mas with satanism because ” you’re taking the Christ out of Christmas “. I worship Satan because I don’t write the word out longhand on every box I put back in the attic? Honestly, I told my husband, it’s not like we’re replacing the word Christ with a SKULL or anything, at which point my husband said, ” Bwa ha ha! Merry Skullmas!”, which became an instant family classic.

28. I got an email notifying me that I made Delta Diamond Medallion. It’s good to be the queen!

29. We argued over whether or not Will Wheaton was in Stand By Me (he was – ha!)

30. Mom read aloud an entire article about 18 little known facts about the movie A Christmas Story.

31. My daughter’s second favorite gift was a huge hardback set of the Lemony Snicket books. She lugged the box up and down the stairs all day.

32. My husband picked all the nuts out of his fudge.

33. I ate my husband’s ice cream, which made him avow eternal wrath.

34. My mom’s tuner croaked Christmas Eve, necessitating that we stream free Amazon Prime Christmas playlists off my phone via a little bullet speaker. We listened to Straight No Chaser nine hundred times.

35. I spent, like, a whole lot of time searching for sterling silver letters I bought to make a gift bracelet. I SWEAR I brought them. I KNOW I brought them.

36. I gave my dad a beaded bald eagle I made to add to his beaded bird collection – he has four now. I stayed up late Christmas Eve because I HAD to finish it.

37. My husband took four or five fists full of vitamins every few hours because he is attempting to purge mercury from his body.

38. Mom and I went through ALL of my daughter’s school pictures, only to discover that she has three sets that I don’t. What?

39. I caught my sweater on some blinds and knocked over a window-worth of Christmas decorations.

40. We discussed how the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors changed the Mayan social caste system.

41. Also, my husband texted me AS ME on my own phone demanding hot Christmas sex.

42. I ate something other than yogurt today.

43. My daughter made a Lego set containing police alligators with red and blue lights, moving tails and (SCORE) mouths that really open.

44. My husband gifted me an awesome fossil ammonite pendant from his trip to Slovenia.

45. I don’t think anyone ever got dressed.

Last flight home to the North Pole!  A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Winter Kills

Since my early twenties, I have hated winter.  This, not coincidentally, corresponded to a time when I spent a year in Washington, DC doing research and I was so much farther north than I was used to being in the winter.  Winter started in September and hung on until April.  I have never spent so much time in the cold and grey.  I was miserable.  I was actually studying Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) at the National Institutes of Health while I was there.  Doctor, heal thyself.  I learned that not only was I depressed but it was seasonal; it got much worse in the cold and dark of winter.

I am completely nonfunctional in winter.  I hate the cold.  No matter how warmly I try to bundle up, the cold seeps in through the gaps.  Cold somehow feels like it might be fatal; summer heat is uncomfortable but you never feel like you might die of it.  I feel like I might die of the cold.  I can’t even persuade myself to get out of my car to go get groceries.  I am so drained of energy by the dark cold greyness, and so miserable from the chill that it takes a superhuman effort to get out and walk through the parking lot.  And getting up for work in the dark and leaving work in the dark is just so depressing.  As soon as it gets dark, it feels to me as if my day is over.  So I can get things done in the evenings in the summer, but in the winter, when I get home I just want to go to bed.  I don’t have the energy for any projects besides doing things that are absolutely necessary. 

I love the fall.  I’m not sure why, since the days are getting shorter, but there’s a feel to the air with the sound of football games on the radio in passing cars and and the beautiful colors of the leaves.  Fall just has a melancholy beautiful feel to it, but all along in the back of my mind is the sad thought:  winter is coming. 

My husband seems to get upset with me more in the winter, since my motivation is so far down and it is so hard for him to get me to do things around the house.  That in turn discourages me and makes me feel even less like getting things done, so it is a vicious cycle.  My daughter seems to perceive my sluggishness also.  I tend to gain weight in the winter.  I also want to shop to cheer myself up, but it is so cold outside that I can’t even get myself to do that.  I have tried taking melatonin and all manner of things to rectify my winter blues, but nothing seems to work.  The only things that make me better are warmth and sunshine, both of which are notably lacking around here in the wintertime.  I also tend to care less about my appearance in the winter and spend less time shaving my legs or getting my toenails done.

At any rate, winter is coming and I am filled with dread.  I always irk my husband by turning on all the lights in the house in the winter time, in hopes of getting myself out of a funk enough to get things done.  I have not been in very good shape this summer, to be honest, and the winter blues will only make this worse.  This may be a very bad winter for me.  I need to move somewhere else in winter.  You would think living as far south as Alabama would not be too bad, but all I know is if I went farther north I would be worse.  I can usually keep my head up more or less through the holidays, but after they are over there is nothing left to cheer me.  The stretch between New Year’s and March when the weather starts to change are the longest three months of my life every year.  I have often wished that they would reverse Daylight Savings Time and add extra sunlight hours to the winter instead of taking them away.

Winter is coming and I am trying to prepare myself.  It may be an interesting study to see how my blog posts evolve throughout the changing seasons.  I am thinking the winter posts may be even more humorless than usual.  I will do my best to keep my chin up, but it will take a superhuman effort.  I wonder how many others are seasonally affected and how many others lose enthusiasm and productivity when the days are short and the nights are long and cold?

Our House

I would like to know exactly what kind of dirt the previous owners of our house had on the inspectors who cleared the house to sell it to us.  This house has been worse than a moneypit since we bought it.  Anything that can go wrong with the stupid thing has and will continue to.  Ask my husband.  He’ll tell you.  “I hate this house.” 

One of the first things we learned when we moved in is that our house is infested with brown recluse spiders (see the blog, Giant Spiders).  The stupid things were everywhere, in the bathtubs, in the sinks and on the floor.  Our housekeeper told us, “You have brown recluse spiders.”  Of course, I was much too clever and was convinced that I knew EXACTLY what a brown recluse looked like and these weren’t it.  Until, of course, I looked up Google Images, and under Brown Recluse was every damn spider I had ever seen in our house.

We discovered not long after moving in that the roof in the attic leaks.  There were even buckets left in the back corners of the attic, but of course the inspector somehow missed THAT.  That is why I would like to know what kind of a hold the previous owners had on the inspector.  We have now completely reroofed the house twice and put on chimney caps, all to no avail.  The roof still leaks.  Just in different places.

By the second year in our house, we discovered that the upper back porch was sliding off the house.  We had to entirely rebuild it, including new columns, before the whole damn thing just fell off.  We had crews of workmen working on the porch right when I had my baby, and they were constantly coming to the door while I had a baby dangling off my boob, not to mention that the back of the house is almost entirely windows.  I came home one day to discover them lying flat on their backs having a siesta and spitting watermelon seeds in the yard.  Then the front porches tried to rot off and we had to replace them.  All the wood was rotten and we replaced columns and slats with a plastic substitute that looks like real wood, which I hated and found completely tacky, even though you couldn’t really tell.  But it was about our only recourse, since everything on the house rots. 

We had the house repainted and they did a terrible job.  Whoever put the windows in left the caulking around them off, so of course the windows leaked too.  Even the ones that stuck shut or open.  They painted the front door dark green, which looked very pretty, but we discovered that that dark paint attracted the sun and the front of the house got incredibly hot during the day.

We have hired and fired more lawn specialists than I care to try to name.  Last year we had the entire yard resodded and planted, to the tune of about $13,000.  We had to resod the yard because it was fescue, which was the wrong kind of grass for our part-shade yard.  All the grass had completely died off on the shaded side of the house.  We put in new grass and bushes, and of course that summer there was a terrible drought.  Then they put in rosebushes (even they were supposed to be the “easier” knock-out roses) and the front ones grew huge and blocked the sprinklers, which caused the rest of the plants to be dry and knocked all the leaves off the roses with a fungus that gets worse when the leaves are wet.  (see Deadheading blog).

The entire house has settled so many times, we never know which doors will be in working order.  Some doors we can’t open even with a key, because they have settled so heavily in their frames that the bolt is jammed in the lock.  The doors that don’t work rotate from time to time, so we never know what doors we can use.  Right now it is impossible to lock the mudroom door because the door has sagged down too far.  I use that lock to remind me to turn the house alarm off before I open the door, and now I’m always forgetting and setting the damn alarm off.

The garage leaks.  Water pours underneath the doors when it rains.  The drainage in our backyard is also blocked, and has gotten worse since they built a new house next door, so now the water backs up in the back corner of the yard and makes a swamp.

Carpenter bees have invaded our front porch and our daughter’s wooden swing set.  They menace her when she tries to play on it, so she doesn’t play on it any more.  We also have a wasp nest hanging on our front porch, and one inside our grill, so we haven’t cooked out all summer.

The real capper was the night that the upper part of the house settled so much that a huge plate glass window shattered.  My husband and I were minding our own business watching Netflix and there was a noise like a rifle shot.  We looked, and the third floor window had cracked INWARD from the weight of the settling house.  So now we have that boarded up and it looks just beautiful.

We had termites in the garage and inside the sun room chimney.  Did the inspector notice that?  Nooo.  We had to have the chimney entirely torn down and rebuilt and all the inner wood taken off the inside of garage.  Now we have termite spikes all over the place and are waiting for the next outbreak to happen. 

The house was only seven years old when we bought it, and in short, has been the house from hell.  It is an incredibly beautiful house, so it is a terrible shame, but we are going to go broke if we have to fix anymore things.  No wonder my husband stomps around saying, “I HATE this house!!!”  I loved it when we bought it, but now I pretty much hate it too.

Making Groceries

There are few things I hate in life more than going to the grocery store.  OK, well, there are lots of things I hate worse, but I am writing about the grocery store right now.  First off, I hate PARKING at the grocery store.  I always seem to go at the wrong time.  I don’t wait to go on payday, but for some reason it’s always payday when I go.  Or church is just getting out.  Then there is always some person blocking the very beginning of the aisle waiting for someone halfway down to back out so they can get a closer spot.  Then there is the whole waiting for pedestrian shoppers in the crosswalk to get the heck out of the way.  I swear half of them slow down when they see you waiting.  And then here comes another wave by the time that one’s gotten out of the way.  When you finally find a spot, it is miles away.  And it is either next to the cart corral, so shoppers will hurl their carts unhesitatingly into your car, or it is eight miles from the cart corral, so you have to walk eight miles to put the damn cart away, and all the while your door is unlocked and you’re sure someone is about to steal your car, and your purse, and the cheese bear claws you’ve sneaked into the front seat to eat on your way home.

Once you get inside you get into the whole key/purse/cart juggling routine where you try to consolidate your keys into your purse and put your sweater on and get the purse into the cart all while moving, so you don’t block the door on the way in.  The carts are usually a) stuck together, b) wet, or c) sticky.  Or worse yet, d) with one stuck wheel that squawks and skids and drags the cart sideways.  Or all of the above.

Then of course they have the dreaded bakery area right at the entrance so you have to walk through a diet minefield while starving  (hence the bear claws in the front seat).  Then they have the wine, and that’s pretty tempting too.  And then things have gotten just so specialized.  My grocery store has a cooler just for tea and lemonade.  If you pass through all this, you get to the produce area where they have the RIDICULOUS fake thunderstorms to make you forget that they are just dousing the produce in water to get the germs and the dirt off.  I mean, fake thunder?  Really?  Where’s the lightening?  Oh, right.  That’s that flickering fluorescent light right over the onions and the bok choy.

In the deli section we have the famous singing stocker who smiles sunnily at you and sings some arcane unrecognizable show tune at the top of his lungs.  He has been there forever.  To be honest, he is actually one of the highlights of the grocery store trip.

Then we have cereal, another mine field if you are unlucky enough to have your kid with you.  My daughter begs for Cap’N Crunch and Krave without shame.  Since we have never, ever bought her either, where does she get this?  How does she even know what they taste like?  Actually, she tells me, they are given to them as a snack at aftercare.  Thanks, aftercare.  And why put the chocolate syrup and the peanut butter in the same aisle as the cereal?  And coffee?  In what way do these items go together?  Oh well, I guess they have to put them somewhere.

Then there is the bleachy reek and chill of the fish department.  The signs over the aisles are just too difficult to read unless I remember to bring in my driving glasses.  Juice and Mexican food?  Together?  Then of course they are always out of whatever particular brand I am looking for.  And the stockers dodge and run the other way if it looks like you have a question. 

The bread aisle is scary.  All the bags have been squeezed as if all the parents in the store gave them to their kids and told them they were Charmin.  And there has always just been a run on the wheat kind that we always like.  Thank goodness my husband got out of his “rounds” kick, where he bought those stupid little flat bread rounds that are a very unsatisfying half centimeter thick.  They are like eating solid crust.

The freezer aisle – brrrrr.  We always need popsicles for hubby, and they always have the wrong kind.  The plain, not the tropical.  Or they don’t have the sugar free.  And I have to look at all the delicious pints of Haagen Daz and walk away.  Then we need parmesan cheese.  I like the shredded.  The husband likes the powdered.  I always lose. 

By the time I reach the registers, the lines are a mile long.  There is always some idiot with fifty-eight items in the express lane.  I’ve been told the checkers are not allowed to correct people in the lane with too many items.  They just have to smile and ring them all up.  The customer is always right.  Then I get the lane with a) no bagger so I have to bag all my own stuff or b) the world’s stupidest laziest bagger who puts a gallon of milk on top of my loaf of bread.  The credit card reader never takes on the first swipe.  Then there is the do-I-need-help dilemma, where you don’t really feel like having a stranger poke around in your car, but it would be nice to have someone take the cart away, versus loading your own groceries into the car and dispose of the cart but you don’t have to worry about making pleasantries with a weirdo bagger person who always appears to be memorizing the license plate on your car for a later home assault.

I never feel safe backing out.  I have never felt safe backing that stupid minivan, even with the cute little backup cam that is designed to keep you from running over your own toddler in your own driveway.  I just know some litigious freak is going to throw their body behind my van where they are just out of sight so that I will run over them and get sued for lots of money.  Or someone with a cart will just pop out behind me.  Or some other car will swoop up too close to me because they want my damn parking spot (I can’t think why, because I am usually parked somewhere out in lower east hell).  Driving out of the lot is just as much fun because there are cars popping out from all the aisles and pulling across them so they are hurtling right at you.  And it is very hard to manage this with one hand, while you are backing out and trying to eat your tasty bear claw.  Very disruptive to bear claw enjoyment.  That’s the worst part of the whole thing.


My husband has suddenly gotten it in his head that in the interest of togetherness, I should learn how to play a war game called ASL that is played on a hex board with outcomes determined by a dice roll.

The game is about World War II, and the scenarios are based on real battles that were fought throughout Europe with appropriate countries (Americans, Germans, Italians, Russians) and squadrons with squad leaders. 
ASL stands for Advanced Squad Leader.  I think.

Anyhow, he’s decided that we don’t do enough things together (other than eat and watch TV series on Netflix) and that this would be the Ideal Togetherness Thing.  This is nothing short of disastrous for me because a) I hate war, b) I know nothing about World War II, the weapons, the battles or the parties involved and c) I hate playing games.  My inherent competitiveness kicks in just enough to make me miserable and mean. 

“This is the starter kit,” he said cheerfully.  “This is an abbreviated version and there are only 28 pages of instructions.”  He really thought this was a good thing and I would be happy that there were “only” 28 pages of abbreviations, geeky code words and mind-twisting equations used to calculate firepower, movement, range, close combat and leadership.  I tried to read over the instructions over the weekend, as he left them for me on the bed to read while he was gone.  This was my weekend homework (along with deadheading all the roses and lilies, and pulling all the weeds).  I could consistently get only to page three  before collapsing in sheer frustration.  There was one entire small print page devoted to abbreviations only.  Somehow I managed to read through that, although I caught my mind wandering quite a few times to my daughter, or other things I needed to do, or that I really could use a nap.  I felt guilty that I couldn’t raise more interest.  He seems so excited about a chance to play again (he gave up travel play when our daughter was born) that I hate to let him down and not be enthusiastic about this, but really, this is on a par with having teeth extracted without anesthetic. 

I told him the instructions might be “easier” to follow if we played through a real scenario, and he JUST HAPPENED to have one right on his computer, written out step by step, including dice rolls, so you could play through exactly with the scenario just as described by the author.  So we sat down at 4:30, and it was the next four hours and we were still playing out the scenario.  “Ok,” he’d say patiently.  “Now we have a firepower of 4 with a range of 7.  But there are two units in this stack.  Now, are they within range?  Yes, close range.  Therefore, you don’t halve the fire power, but you double it because there are two units.  Now what are the pluses and minuses?  That’s right, plus one, because they are firing through an orchard and plus two because they are firing through smoke, then minus one because you have a leader in the stack with a minus one for morale.  So now we roll the dice and refer to chart B, where you round down from seven to six because there is no seven in the chart, and then count down plus three and then count down the number on the dice.  Piece of cake.  You’re doing great.”  What I was really doing was eating cookies, and feeling my butt slowly mold to the hard wooden chair in the dining room where we were sitting.  This went on for four hours.  Now, I think I was a remarkably good sport about the whole thing.  The best part was as we ended up, he said, “Ok, we’ve basically finished three turns.  When we start back we’ll have two more to occupy those buildings.”  I think I may have screamed but I am not sure.  When I came to, I was rhythmically banging my head on the dining room table.  The babysitter meanwhile had spent the last four hours laughing at me as I struggled through move after move.  “Are you winning?” she kept asking.  My husband was very perky and nonchalant.  “We’ll have you playing a full game in no time.”  Visions of hara kiri flashed through my head.  Maybe I could impale myself with the game board, or swallow some poisoned dice.  I would really rather do ANYTHING than spend any more time moving little square pieces around on a big gigantic hex grid, stacking and unstacking them, calculating and consulting figure A or Table 2 or chart 1.a.  I wonder, does this make me a bad person?  Because if I have to play for one more minute, I just don’t wanna be good!

Nothing Is Funny

Some days nothing is funny.  I would very much like to write a whimsical rollicking blog, but I keep being hit over the head with the fact that nothing is funny.
I am on call today, so my sense of humor is at an all time low.  All I can occupy my mind with is all the horrible things that may happen to me today.  I have had a never ending line of patients rolling through labor and delivery, all of whom have required way too much attention. 
Whimisical and rollicking are hardly where I am at.  I keep trying to think of anything funny, anything at all.  Sometimes when I babble like this, something funny will pop into my head.  I transported a very ill patient to a tertiary hospital yesterday, but there was nothing funny about THAT.  In fact, it was terrifying.  The girl had blood pressures of 220s over 130s, which is horrifying.  I was convinced she was going to have a seizure in the ambulance en route.  The nurse that rode with her was terrified also.  In fact, we joked that we had put our big girl panties on and then pooped in them.  Her baby had to be delivered at 25 weeks, and will have a terribly long road ahead of it.  Not funny.

My husband is attempting to roll over my 401K from the old office into another account.  Not interesting.  He keeps texting me with questions about four digit pins and my mother’s maiden name.  It is a pain in the butt for him that he keeps getting stuck with all this stuff.  We were originally told that we would have to take the money out; that we could not roll it over.  It turned out that we could roll it over, so that was good, but hardly funny.

I notice that the blog is not automatically keeping track of the number of words or autosaving, so I may lose this entire thing.  I don’t think that would be funny.  Someone might find it so, but not me.  It would probably be a good thing, since this is turning out to be fairly depressing.

I have 3 cervidil inductions today, which is not funny either.  They will go into labor on me overnight.  My husband is bringing my daughter by with dinner for us, which is sweet, but, you know, not humorous.  I don’t know what he is bringing, so it is a surprise.  I have a feeling it will be ChickFilet.  I am drinking my second 40 oz diet Pepsi of the day.  No humor there.  Unless you make jokes about me floating away.  Which would also not be funny, but stupid. 

I did two circumcisions at lunch.  The first baby sounded like a squealing piglet.  He had the most piercing cry.  Both turned out very pretty, but I’m sure the babies would have passed on the procedure, given the choice.  They are not, however, given a choice. 

I saw a patient this afternoon whose IUD fell out and now she is pregnant.  No joy there.  She is pretty unhappy.  This will be her fourth child.  Nothing too amusing about a vanishing method of birth control that sneakily disappears when you are not looking. 

Well, I have typed and typed and nothing is funny.  I haven’t really written about anything either.  I have made it my goal to write a blog a day, and if things don’t get more humorous soon I (and any unfortunate readers) are in for a long haul.  One of our nurses just walked by and told me it took her four flushes for her toilet paper to go down.  Now THAT’S kind of funny.

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